Resonance
by LaBohme
Summary: He was senselessly lost inside of himself and as far as the boy or anyone knew, there was no getting out.


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He pushed his way through the vines, which caught on his fingers as he went. He didn't even bother turning his attention downwards to count them. The boy knew he was in a dream. His vision was hazy and thick, like his brain. But the feel… the sharp lick of the coarse leaves against his skin, the meandering fog drifting lazily around his feet... All of it felt so real. All of it was so fake.

The boy's father peeked through the doorway, frowning at his broken son. Once happy and confident, if not overly-so, the boy was as a teenager should be. What he saw whimpering and shivering in a twirled mess of sheets was not his son. It was a mere shell. It was what was left of his bouncing baby boy. It was a cruel reminder that while the man's son's body still occupied his life, something else – something dark – was currently gnawing at the boy's mind. He watched from the sidelines, seeing his son's personality and sanity disappear little by little, day by day. Nothing could be more tortuous than watching your son die from within at the tender age of seventeen. The father could only wonder in despair, wracking his brain for what he may have done to deserve such a punishment as this.

But the boy's father was being selfish. For what he thought was a tortuous, arduous process for himself was completely hellish and unbearable for his son in ways no sane person can imagine.

The boy finally made it through to a clearing, fresh wounds letting thick rivulets of his life source dribble out of him and decorate the grass under his bare feet. In front of him was a mirror. The old part of him tried to make a witty comparison to Harry Potter but the darkness inside him quickly shut him up. It hurt, what the darkness did. It pulled and bit at parts of the boy that he didn't know could be pulled or bitten at. It hurt on a level so profound and deep within him it pained his mind. His very soul. And there was absolutely nothing the boy could do about it. He was drowning inside his own body; brought claustrophobic by his own flesh and blood. He was senselessly lost inside of himself and as far as the boy or anyone knew, there was no getting out.

He stumbled on, wincing with each step, making his way slowly to the mirror. It wasn't what he thought it was. It was a vanity, with a white porcelain sink stained with earth and blood and broken wooden cabinets. The boy threw himself at it, relieving his weight from his feet, which he realized were bleeding, the grass apparently too sharp for his pale, delicate skin. He groaned into clenched teeth, raising his weary head towards the dirtied mirror. And as soon as he saw the reflection that must be himself, he ducked his head and threw up into the sink. His face was grotesque. His eyes were darkened sockets, his lips cracked and peeling, his cheeks hollow and grey. The boy softly let himself down into the needle-like grass, ignoring the pain. It was nothing compared to what ate away constantly at his waning sanity. Soon there would be nothing left for the darkness to feed on and it would leave him and he'd be no more than an empty husk of the person he once was. He closed his eyes, waiting for the dark hole that was his dream to swallow him up and return him to reality where nothing was any better than it was in this paper world. It was, if possible, worse; watching his friends and father stare at him in silent horror through eyes that no longer were his own.

But for once, the dream didn't come to a merciful end as he prayed it to be. Instead, he felt himself falling, gaining speed with each meter he dropped. Rather than flailing and screaming, though, the boy let himself fall until crumbling, bandaged arms caught him gently. He blinked dopily up at the face of the one who was holding him close like a newborn, peering through the dust fragmenting the sunlight that came from nowhere. The boy almost felt like sighing. This face, though at first horrifying, was familiar. Almost a comfort. It was a bandaged, bleeding face with pointed, black teeth and a sickly purple tongue, but it never hurt him. Only talked to him. And the face, like so many times before, started to speak.

"Dear Stiles, I have another riddle for you."


End file.
